


The Wounded Deer

by thecirclesquare



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 15:06:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7443772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecirclesquare/pseuds/thecirclesquare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fantasy AU - Delphine lives a sheltered life in a cabin on the edge of the woods. She is forbidden from leaving the house and must stay home to spin yarn for her controlling mother. One day she hears a cry for help, and it is this strange voice that finally lures her out of the cabin and toward her destiny. Delphine/Cosima.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wounded Deer

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank my patrons for their support: **Okimafan, OBcrack, María E. Matus.**
> 
> If you'd like to support pledge at https://www.patreon.com/thecirclesquare.

I smelled her before I saw her. I smelled her blood—dank and musty—mixed with sweat and earth, mixed with something else, something so potent that I could nearly taste it on the air.

But wait, I am getting ahead of myself.

I have always had a strong sense of smell, you see. I can smell things that my mother and brother can't. I can smell their day-old sweat. I can smell the wax in their ears and the grunge between their toes. There are times, even, when we are all huddled together to sleep in the loft, and the smell of them is so foul that it smothers me, and I think I can't breathe.

It was like that one afternoon, when my brother came home from his hunt. I smelled him before he pushed open the door. I smelled his sweat. I smelled his kill. I smelled the sunshine that radiated from his skin. And the moment he opened the door I was at once envious and nauseated.

I was not allowed out of the cabin, you see. In fact, it was forbidden. My mother said she never knew who might be lurking in the woods, waiting to snatch me away.

But my brother, he went out whenever he liked. That afternoon, when he stepped into the cabin his face was red with sun and the smell of spring flowers rose up from his boots. It wafted toward me as I sat behind the old spinning wheel.

I was not allowed to stop spinning, not until supper time. All I did was spin. Spin and spin, endless yards of yarn that my mother locked away in her special cupboard. She kept track of every precious spool in an enormous ledger that she read and reread every day while licking her lips and biting at her fingernails.

But that afternoon, it was hard to concentrate as my brother tossed his two dead rabbits onto the kitchen table. The sound was awful. Their little skulls cracked against the heavy oak. Their eyes were open—black and unmoving—as if warning me from across the cabin.

"The strangest thing happened to me today," my brother said.

My mother ran her finger down the page of her enormous ledger, hardly even looking up.

"Oh?"

"Yeah," he continued, pulling out his carving knife. "Me and Shadow, we were walking through the woods on our usual trails when we came to a meadow that I'd never seen before. For a moment I thought I was lost. I was about to turn around, but...but then...I spotted a herd of deer just on the far side of the meadow. I figured that if I stayed just within the tree line—if I was real quiet, then I'd be able to sneak up on them—real stealth like."

My mother looked up then, her eyes landing on the two rabbits.

"Those don't look like deer to me."

"Let me finish!" he said, picking up the rabbits and carrying them to the basin. "So I snuck around, but somehow those deer always knew I was coming. Whenever I stepped back out into the meadow, they were always on the other side of it."

"They probably smelled you," I said under my breath.

"Watch it!" he sneered.

"I'm listening," my mother said. "Go on."

My brother went to work on the rabbits, cutting their feet away first, and tossing the pieces into a pail. I held my breath.

"Anyway, every time I stepped out into that meadow, they were just as far away, always on the other side. Naturally, I got a bit frustrated at that..."

Next he slit one carcass right down the spine, and ripped the skin easily away from the body.

"So finally, I charged right out of the woods. I charged that herd right down the middle, screaming like a madman with my bow raised. I thought I could at least catch a confused foal, but no, they heard me and scattered long before I was within range."

He tossed the bloody hide into the pail.

"But then…" he said, pausing to wipe his brow. "But then, there was this one deer—a doe—she didn't run. She just stood there, like she was made of stone or something. We ran right up to her, Shadow and me, but then Shadow got spooked. He reared up and knocked me flat on my back in the grass—and do you know what? Still, that doe didn't move. She just stood there a few feet off. I might have thought she were dead, petrified even, if it weren't for her nostrils, which were twitching like mad…"

He set the bloody carcasses down, and stared off through the window, twitching his own nostrils in a gross mimicry.

"I crawled across the grass to where my bow lay. I picked it up. I loaded my arrow. I pointed and— _SWOOSH!_ —I let it fly."

"Let me guess, you missed?" my mother said dismissively.

She stood from the table, clutching the ledger lovingly to her chest. She carried it to the cupboard, which she unlocked with a special silver key, and set it on the shelf.

"No, that's the strangest part," he said, taking a step toward her, his hands red with rabbit's blood. "I shot her."

My mother paused, her hand outstretched where she had been stroking the binding of her ledger. "Then where is she?"

"That's just the thing, I landed the arrow right into her front shoulder and— _BAM!_ —she bolted. But before she bolted, she let out an eerie cry—a cry like I'd never heard before…"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, it didn't sound like an animal at all."

"Then what did it sound like?"

"It sounded like a...well, it sounded like a woman."

"Go on," my mother said, her voice low and controlled, but her eye twitching ever so slightly.

"I was so startled—but we chased her. Yeah, we chased her through the woods. I figured she couldn't get far with that arrow in her shoulder, but somehow she always managed to stay one step ahead of me, until finally, we ended up right back in the meadow where we'd started…"

As my brother spoke, my mother became more and more agitated, until finally she left the cupboard, moving throughout the cabin, closing all the shutters and bolting the lock on the front door. She moved slowly, but I saw her hands shake.

"...I found the arrow on the ground, but the doe was gone. Not even a trail of blood to follow."

"And the arrow?" my mother growled with her back to the front door. "Do you have it?"

"Of course."

"Show me! Now!"

My brother jumped forward, reached for his satchel, and pulled the arrow out.

My mother examined the thing, holding it very close to her face. She sniffed at it, dabbed at it with her bony fingertip, and then, to my surprise, she brought her bloody fingertip to her mouth, suckling it and smacking her lips together in deliberation, as if she were tasting a broth.

"Gross!" my brother grunted, his face twisted in disgust.

Mother grabbed him by the arm and pulled him down to her level, looking him right in the eyes.

"Are you certain," she said slowly, "that you were not followed?"

"Followed? By who?"

"Answer the question, boy!" she said, twisting the skin on his arm until he flinched beneath her. "Were you followed, or not?!"

"No! No, I don't think so!"

She let him go, sighing as she set the arrow down onto the table. But no sooner had she put the arrow down, did she take up the dagger from the sheath hidden in the folds of her black skirts. She held it at her side, as if trying to conceal it, then stepped quietly to the front door.

She looked back at us, her eyes squinty and her mouth straight.

"Don't open this door," she said. "Unless I knock three times."

"Yes, Mother," my brother said.

I watched in silence as Mother slipped out the door. My brother bolted it shut behind her, then glanced in my direction.

"What was that all about?" I whispered.

"I don't know," he snapped at me. "But whatever it is, it's none of your business."

But it was too late. I had seen the fear in his eyes. I could smell it, too, even over the scent of the rabbit carcasses that were now laid bare on the table and gathering flies. I smelled his fear, and I smelled Mother's. I closed my eyes and listened, but my brother made such a ruckus pacing back and forth over the rickety wooden floorboards, that it was hard to hear what was going on outside.

She was trying hard to keep quiet. That much I could tell. I heard her silent steps drift off in the direction of the barn, then disappear inside it.

 _What is she so afraid of?_ I thought. _What is she looking for?_

Several moments passed and still she did not return.

"Do you think we should go find her?" I whispered.

"Just stick to your spinning, girl," he growled.

And so I did. I spun and spun until I had completed the entire spool and started another. I spun my best, the yarn shining beneath my fingers, but not shining as bright as it sometimes did. I was having trouble concentrating, you see.

A strange mix of smells—the smell of grass and wildflowers, the smell of damp earth, the smell of spring rains and rotting wood—they all wafted around the cabin. At first I had assumed they were drifting up from my brother's boots, scents that he had drug in with him from the mysterious meadow, but as the evening wore on, as the sun set and the birds settled into sleep, the smell grew and grew, until I could almost swear that the meadow grasses had begun to sprout up between the old floorboards of our cabin.

My mother returned and locked the door behind her. Thankfully, she was too distracted to notice the lackluster shine of the yarn. She took up the spool and locked it away in her cupboard.

We ate a quick supper of rabbit stew and brown bread, then Mother ushered us all upstairs to sleep. She instructed my brother to bring his bow and then she laid down next to me, her body stiff, her dagger clenched and concealed beneath her pillow.

I turned my back to her, to my brother, to the entire cabin. I slept with my face buried in the pillow, if only to block out the waves of unusual smells. But no matter what, even as my mother and my brother drifted off to a fearful sleep, I could not shake the smell of spring rain, of an early morning sunrise, of blue dewdrops on shoots of green grass.

I, too, began to drift to sleep, but it was the restless kind and full of dreams. I dreamed of my brother's meadow—of his deer. I dreamed that I was there in the meadow, standing in the soft light of morning. White blossoms were at my feet—small and wild—with their petals turned out, anticipating the sun. I dreamed that I saw the doe, that her nostrils twitched wildly, that she sized me up in her even gaze, even from where she stood on the far side of the meadow.

I caught the scent of her on the air. She was somehow...familiar.

That's when I realized it. This was not my brother's meadow, or any man's meadow. This place, with its silver blue light and its low-lying wisps of fog, it was not a human place at all. It was something else. I knew I was not supposed to be there. No human was supposed to be there.

The doe took a step forward, her head held high, her ears pointed forward, her eyes wide open and black. She blinked and took another step forward.

 _Run!_ I whispered.

And though she was far off, she flinched as if she'd heard me. I heard her, too. I heard her heartbeat. I heard her breath. I heard her take the slightest step forward, lifting her front hoof elegantly, then pausing before it fell, her whole body rigid with alarm.

Her alarm was my alarm. I glanced around, suddenly aware of a shadow just beyond the tree line. I knew it was my brother. I knew he had come for her. I felt his gaze.

But he was only a shadow and seemed to be in many places at once. I felt him all around us, creeping, creeping, with insidious intentions.

 _Run!_ I whispered again.

No, I could hardly call it a whisper at all. My tongue was awkward in my mouth. My voice was buried somewhere deep in my throat. It was more like a cough...more like a yelp.

A flock of pheasants flew up from the grass, and I knew it was too late. He had let his arrow fly. I turned just in time to see it approach, just in time to see the iron tip as it tore right through my hip. I fell backward into the meadow grasses. I fell backward as the full moon set in the sky, pale against a pink sunrise.

I woke then, sitting up in the bed and covered in a cold sweat. I whispered one last warning, but my brother and my mother slept soundly beside me, Mother's fingers still wrapped loosely around the hilt of the dagger.

I laid awake, until Mother stirred awake as well. She roused my brother from his deep slumber, whispering for him bring his bow.

"But where are we going?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

"To finish what you started," Mother whispered, her voice thick with intention.

I kept my eyes closed until they were out the door, which she locked from the outside.

I laid still until I was sure they were far off, deep into the forest and out of range. I laid still and listened as I always did, dreaming up the world beyond the walls of the cabin, painting it like a picture in my mind, painting it with all the pigments that my nose and ears could provide.

I heard the trickling water in the well. I heard the cow moo gently in the barn. I heard the songs of the sparrow and the buzz of the bees. I smelled the morning glories turn out their blossoms, and from all of this I knew it was a clear, sunny morning.

Then I heard something else. Something like a whisper. I sat up at the sound.

_Help me._

I pressed my ear to the shuttered window, thinking it might be the wind. But then I heard it again.

_Help me._

It buzzed beside me, around me, inside me. I shook my head. I scratched at my ear.

Then I smelled it.

I smelled blood—musty, dank, and potent—I could nearly taste it on the air.

 _Help me,_ she whispered again.

Yes, a woman's voice, but not my own, her tone gentle but urgent.

I climbed down from the loft. I crept to the door. I peaked through the keyhole, catching glimpse of the barn.

_Yes. The barn. Help me._

A wave of urgency washed over me, an urgency to flee, an urgency to escape, as though the cabin might grow teeth from ceiling to floor and grind me to pieces.

I shook the door handle, pulling it with all my strength, but it was made of solid oak. How could I ever hope to move it?

My panic mounted itself higher and higher, rising like a wild river. I glanced around the room, searching for some leverage, for some way out, sure that if I did not get out, I would most certainly asphyxiate before Mother returned.

 _Help!_ the voice urged. _Help me!_

I grabbed a chair from the table. The oak was heavy in my hands. I lifted it as high as I could, my elbows shaking with strain, and that's when I heard it—the little click of the bolt in the door.

I froze, staring in disbelief as the doorknob twisted on its own, as the hinge released, as the door sighed open, letting in a sliver of sunshine that caught my eye and sent me reeling back.

I dropped the chair to the ground. It thudded against the floorboards.

_Help me._

The voice was quieter now, weaker.

I walked to the door. I pulled it open. I stepped out onto the hearth stones.

I listened.

I heard nothing but the breeze and the bees.

I skipped onto the next stone, and then the next, until I found myself at the barn. The large double doors had been locked. Desperate, I circulated the building, until I found a hole in the rotting wooden slats, something Mother must have overlooked.

 _Come in, come in_.

I crawled inside.

The barn was dark. The air was as damp and as heavy as a wet blanket. It hung around my shoulders, sending a chill up my spine. I tried to shake it off. The cow shook her own hide and regarded me from her stall.

A ray of light filtered down onto her head. She blinked, undisturbed. But I smelled it—the fear, the blood, the meadow grasses, the dung of the earth and the sweat.

I took another step into the barn, moving into and out of stark shadows. I tiptoed toward the back corner as a flock of sparrows flew up through the rotted out roof, twenty of them, all flapping wings and flustered feathers.

They flew up and out into the blue sky. I watched as they went, blinding myself against the daylight. And when I looked back down, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust, to peer through the dusty sunlight into the shadows beyond.

"Help me," she whispered.

It was a real voice, the kind that carried on the air.

She appeared there, in the corner of the barn, a fragile form that unfolded itself in the shadows, a hand that reached out to me.

I flinched. I retracted my hand. I crossed my arms in front of my chest and took a step back.

"Please," she whispered.

I saw her face then—her large and dark eyes, her smooth and pale skin, her speckled nose and cheeks. Her hair was pulled back into intricate braids that were beaded at the ends.

She held me in her gaze, just as the cow had. I felt a strange urge to stroke her head, to nuzzle my nose against her long neck.

I took a step forward, and still the sunlight overhead blinded me. Everything was illuminated from above—my eyelashes, the bits of dust in the air, the back of my hand as I reached for her face.

She smiled, stepping forward into the light. She turned her head. She met the palm of my hand with her cheek. She nuzzled against my fingers, turning her head, until her plump lips brushed against the sensitive skin of my wrist, and once again I was shaking.

I was not scared, but— _Oh!_ —how my heart pounded!

We stood in the sunlight, my hand on her cheek, our eyes locked in a strange sort of salutation, our hearts beating so fast that I could see the pulsing vein of her long neck. I followed the line of the vein, watched its enticing rhythm as it _beat, beat_ beneath her skin.

To both my shock and my pleasure, I followed the vein down, my eyes moving past her bare collarbone, her bare sternum, her bare belly and breast. She was naked from head to toe, her skin glowing like heated clay.

She smelled good.

It was a smell I could not describe. It invaded my nose—my very _being_ —but the sensation of it was not unpleasant.

"I know you," I whispered.

A relieved smile crossed her face as a tear spilled over her cheek.

_Yes._

I moved my hand from her cheek to her shoulder.

"You're bleeding," I said. "You're hurt."

_Yes._

"How can I help you?"

_Kiss me._

"What?" I said.

I searched her face, certain that her lips had not moved. She took a deep breath, and when her lips finally parted, it seemed a great burden for her to speak. Saliva clinged to the roof of her mouth.

"Kiss me," she whispered.

The smell of her breath was the smell of damp earth.

My first impulse was to pull away, but instead, I found myself drifting closer, as if caught in a current of unknown intentions. Her influence—her smell—swirled around me, pulling me closer and closer still, until I was so close that I could see the flecks of green and gold in her sandy eyes.

She reached for me, placing a hand on my hip and leaning forward. She kissed me with her eyes closed.

I kissed her with my eyes open, transfixed by the length of her black eyelashes as they laid perfectly still over her cheeks.

Yes, my eyes were open, and then…

A rush of sensations shot up, straight from my stomach, straight from my crotch. A tickle rose up, pushing me up onto my tiptoes and then away from her.

I stepped away, out of breath.

She opened her eyes, a heavy sigh escaping her lips.

She held tight to my dress, her forearm flexing, her other hand on my wrist.

"Come with me," she whispered.

I pulled further away, bringing my fingers to my lips, feeling the buzz radiate through my face, through my cheeks and ears.

"Come with you?" I said, alarmed at her strength. "I don't even know you."

"But you do,"

"No, I'm certain—"

"You do, Delphine."

Her words froze me, but only for a moment. I paused, looking into her eyes, looking at her lips which had just uttered my name...Delphine.

The sound of it warmed my heart and filled me with a great longing—it was a longing for stony gray mountaintops, icy blue river bottoms, forests that crawled across miles and...meadow flowers that danced with the breeze.

I had almost forgotten it.

"How do you—?"

"I just do."

"Let me go."

"I can't. Not now. Not after all this time."

"All what time? What are you talking about? Please, you're hurting me."

With a reluctant sigh, she let go.

"You really don't remember, do you?" she said.

"Remember what?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but paused, only then to contort her lips and grunt through her teeth. She looked down, touching her bloody shoulder.

I watched in amazement as the wound—a puncture wound, as if from an arrow—seemed to tighten of its own accord, the skin around it puckering like a kiss, then relaxing again. And though the sunlight cast strange shadows through the rotted-out roof, I was almost certain that she was glowing, that a golden iridescence swirled just beneath the surface of the skin of her shoulder.

She clasped tight to the wound, but she didn't make a sound. And when the pain had passed she looked up.

Our eyes met again. I felt myself being pulled into that familiarity, that uncanny affinity.

She blinked, and the space of her blinking dragged on, her eyelashes—perfectly black and perfectly thick—swooped long and low over her cheek.

I felt a desire to kiss them while they were still closed.

"What don't I remember?" I whispered.

Just then her eyes shot open, and she inhaled quickly through her nose. She turned toward the barn door, all caution and alertness.

And that's when I smelled them, my mother and brother. Their foul smell spilled into the atmosphere like a drop of black ink in a sea of amber and gold.

"It's too late!" she said. "You must go now."

"You're hurt—"

"Come back tonight while they sleep, and I will tell you everything."

"Tell me everything about what?"

"Who you are and where you're from..." she said, ushering me toward the front of the barn. "And…"

She paused at the little hole through which I had crawled in.

"And what?"

"You really must go. I can hear the horse hooves. Can't you?"

I crouched down to crawl out, and with my fingertips resting against the dirt floor…

"Yes—but, wait. What are you not telling me?"

"I will tell you everything. Come back tonight."

"I can't. Mother keeps me locked up night and day."

"You got out today, didn't you? A lock is just another door."

"Yes, but—"

I remembered the mysterious way the door had unbolted itself, as if by...magic.

"Go!" she said, pushing me out through the hole. "Go, now! They are almost here!"

I scurried through the hole and stood up. She reached her hand out through the wooden slats. I took it and squeezed it, suddenly fearful to leave her, suddenly afraid that if I left her, I might not ever see her again. The thought was unbearable. I felt a great sob well up in my chest, a sadness that sprang forth from somewhere, a sadness that I didn't even know I possessed.

"Who are you?" I whispered.

"I'm yours."

Her hand slid from my fingers as her form receded back into the shadows of the barn, leaving me alone on the outside—filled with fear, filled with fire.

My heart pounded, but over the pounding I heard the steady plodding of Shadow's hooves. I heard his occasional snort and sigh.

I was out of time.

I ran for the house, and once inside I turned to bolt the door, but the bolt slid into place on its own— _Clank!_

In a panic, I sat behind the spinning wheel. I took up the yarn in my hands, then gasped, horrified at my empty spool. I had spun nothing that morning, and Mother would not be happy.

I ran to the cupboard where she kept the golden spools. But of course, it was locked.

_A lock is just another door._

I ran my fingers over the wrought iron face of the lock. I closed my eyes. I imagined my mother's key, the shape of it and the weight.

_A lock is just another door._

I imagined my mother inserting the key and turning it, as I had seen her do so many times before.

I opened my eyes. I heard their footsteps outside. And still the little lock didn't budge.

"Open!" I shouted.

_Click!_

The cupboard door sighed open, just a crack, but it was enough. I reached in. I pulled out a spool. I closed the cupboard and ran to my seat behind the spinning wheel. I set the spool in place as the front door creaked open.

My brother came in first, stepping heavily across the floor to the long kitchen table, leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind him that reeked of the dark forest, but smelled nothing of the meadowland grasses.

Somehow, I was relieved.

Mother came in next, skulking across the room, hardly even noticing me, heading instead, straight to the cupboard. I looked up. I remembered the open lock. I closed my eyes and whispered.

"Lock!" I whispered. "Please, lock!"

"Well, that was a waste of time!" my mother growled.

When my mother slid her key into the little lock and turned it, she paused, as if something were not quite right. She locked and then unlocked the cupboard once more. After a moment's deliberation, she turned her scowl toward me.

"Did you touch my cupboard?"

"No, Mother," I said. "I've been spinning all morning. Look, I've nearly finished another spool."

My mother set her eyes on me a moment longer, her left eye twitching slightly, her mouth puckered in distrust.

"Very well," she grumbled.

Then she locked the cupboard and tucked the key into the pocket of her black skirts.

I passed the rest of the day behind the wheel, working fast with my head down. I said not a word about my morning or about the woman in the barn. I dared not even ask about their outing, about the meadow or the deer that sounded like a human.

I skipped lunch. The thought of eating the rabbit stew was more unbearable than usual, but that did not mean I was not hungry. No, I felt hunger pains like I had never experienced before. I desired something fresh, something green, something like summer grass, something like spring leaves.

I passed dinner by stirring the stew, pushing the meat from one side of my dish to the other, until finally my brother demanded that I clear his dish and my mother's, too.

That night my mother slept with the dagger once more, and my brother with his bow.

And once more, I laid with my back to them.

I waited until I heard their gentle snores and heavy sighs, then I snuck from the bed, snuck from the loft, snuck from the cabin altogether, moving so quietly that I made less sound than the wind on a winter's night.

But of course, it was not winter. It was summer, and when I stepped out into the night, the air was gentle and warm. The night beckoned me out, beckoned me to turn my head up, to gasp at the stars. And then, the moon.

The moon…

It had been so long since I had seen it. I felt a great sentimentality for the moon which was full and bright enough to light up the little stones that led to the barn.

I hurried to the barn, and the only fear I felt was the fear of discovery should Mother wake in the night and find me gone. But I did not fear the stranger. No, I craved her. I wanted nothing more than to lay my eyes upon her face.

I crept through the crack in the wood slats. I crept to the back of the barn, to the corner beneath the rotted out roof. I found her there, curled up on her side in the hay. She rested her face on her hands. Her eyes were closed and her expression calm, the kind of calm that can only come from sleep or death. But she was not dead. Her bare ribs rose and fell in a soft rhythm.

I kneeled beside her in the hay. I reached for her face, but then second-guessed myself, holding my hand instead, just inches over her skin, where I could feel her warmth without touching her.

I ran my hand over the length of her, from her cheek down over her shoulder, her waist, her hip, and then I turned, moving back up over the slight dip of her naval, over the dark pink tip of her nipple.

And though I did not touch her, I knew what touching her would be like, as if I had touched her countless times before. My palms ached with anticipation.

I leaned back onto my heels, my hands clasped in my lap.

She looked so beautiful in the moonlight, and yet, something wasn't quite right. Just as my yarn sometimes failed to shine, so she seemed dulled, lackluster.

I remembered the kiss. I remembered the way her shoulder radiated with golden light.

I leaned forward. I laid myself quietly—so quietly—on the hay, that soon we were face to face. I brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. I regarded her calm beauty, her black eyelashes, her plump, pink lips which hung open in sleep.

I inched forward.

I brushed her lips with my own.

And though she hardly stirred, that action, the touching of our lips, it lit me up, an instant fire in my belly.

I took a breath. I laid my head down on my hands in a reflection of her peaceful pose.

For a moment, I forgot about Mother. I forgot about fear. I forgot about all things except the moon, and the light on her cheekbone.

_Cosima._

The name came to me quickly and completely. I knew it was hers. I knew the shape of it. I knew the pronunciation and the tone. I knew that I had said it many times before, just as I had touched her skin.

"Cosima," I whispered. "Wake up."

Her eyes fluttered open, and she sat straight up, scared and confused until she saw me.

"You came back to me," she said.

"Yes."

"I wasn't sure you would."

"You know my name," I said. "I had almost forgotten it."

She smiled. "And you know mine."

She touched my face—my lips, my nose and ears.

"How is it possible to forget my own name?" I asked.

"Easy," she said. "You were cursed."

"Cursed?"

"By the witch."

"What witch?"

"Think...You must know the answer."

"But Mother doesn't even allow me out of the house—"

I paused. _Mother._

"That's right," Cosima said. "She is not your mother. How could she be? You don't even know her name."

And it was true. As soon as she said it, I knew it was true.

"Nor your brother's for that matter," she continued.

"They are not my family?"

"Of course not."

I thought back on all of the sinister scowls, on all of the insidious comments, the rules, the demands for more yarn.

"They are not even your kind," she went on. "They are using you—"

"For the yarn," I said.

"Yes."

"The golden yarn."

I looked down at my own dress. It was not golden at all, but made of plain white cotton.

"Fae silk," she said. "A treasure to humans."

"Fae silk…"

"Only a faerie can spin golden fibers. The witch abducted you, cursed you, hid you away."

"But how?"

She sat up. She reached for me, her fingertips tentative over my hip.

"Do you mind?" she asked.

"No."

She reached further down, pulling up on the bottom hem of my skirt, until the plain white cotton fabric had been lifted so high that my entire thigh was bare to the moonlight.

"There," she whispered. "There is the scar."

I looked down at my own hip, at the dark red scar there, a scar that mirrored the puncture wound on Delphine's shoulder.

"An arrow?"

"A cursed arrow. Once the arrow pierced your skin, you slipped into a stupor. You forgot who you were. You forgot who I was. You even forgot your own name—"

"Who are you?"

"Who am I?"

"Yes. You said that I forgot who you were. Who are you?"

"I am Cosima. You are Delphine. I am your heart, and you are mine."

Another tear fell from her eye, but she tossed it from her cheek with a shake of her head.

"Anyway, that's why she was able to keep you for so long. That's why she never told you her name. If you'd heard it, you would know right away who you are."

"How long has it been?"

"Well, fae time and human time are different, of course. Here, in the human world it has been less than a month, less than the time between full moons."

"And in the fae world?"

"In the fae world...the time between full moons is inconsistent. It can stretch on, sometimes years, sometimes lifetimes."

"And how long has it been this time?"

"Twenty-three years."

I took a deep breath. I gasped at the sadness in her eyes, at the tears. Because though I was certain I had seen her face many times, I was equally certain that I had never seen her cry.

I reached for her damp cheek. I touched it lightly with my thumb.

"I'm sorry," she said, immediately wiping at her own cheeks. "I'm sorry. Fae aren't supposed to cry."

"No," I said. "No don't wipe them away."

"It's just that I've been looking for you for so long…I've looked on the highest mountains. I've looked in the shadows of the deepest canyons. I've looked in the reflections of the crystal river waters. And when I could not find you there, I cried, just as a human cries. Isn't that awful? The others think I'm mad."

"No," I said. "No, it's not awful."

I could not bear to see her cry. I stood up and reached for her hand.

The birds flew out at my sudden movement, filling the barn with a fluttering of wings that matched the fluttering of my heart.

"Let's go! Now!" I said. "Before the witch wakes. Let's go back to the meadow."

"We can't," she said, her eyes cautious.

"Why not?"

"Because you have forgotten the way. You won't be able to follow me there."

"Why not? My brother followed you there."

"That was different. He got lost. And thank the gods for that. If he had not gotten lost, I never would have found you. The witch has covered the path here, hidden it with her magic. But I smelled you on him and I knew that I had to follow him. But that only happens to humans sometimes. We can't simply hope that it will happen to you."

"Well, how do I remember the way? You must teach me."

She smiled then, and pulled me back down to the hay-covered floor.

"I cannot teach you the way, Dephine. Just as I cannot teach you who you are. You must remember it yourself."

"But we can't stay here! They could wake at any moment!"

"They won't wake," she said. "Not on the night of the full moon."

Her words made no sense to me. She spoke so confidently of laws that I didn't— _couldn't_ —understand. And when I asked her to explain, she only reminded me to remember for myself.

"And so what should we do? Just sit here all night and hope for the best?"

"You always were impatient," she said. "That's how we got into this mess in the first place."

She sat up slowly, grabbing at her shoulder and wincing. And when she was upright, she pulled her hand away to look at her wound. I was shocked to see that it had completely closed. She gently brushed away flecks of dried blood, and as she did so, I was filled with a perverse desire to lick her scar, to lick the wound until her skin was pink and clean.

I shuddered at the thought, and she noticed, turning her head toward me and smiling.

"I think you're remembering already."

I blushed.

"What do you mean?"

She looked at her own shoulder, and then back to my mouth.

"You are feeling—urges."

For a moment I thought that I would refute her statement, but as I gazed into her dark eyes, I felt no embarrassment, only a growing sense of immediacy, of want. Her open expression encouraged me, as if to say, yes, what you want is okay, is the natural way.

"Yes," I whispered.

She touched the scar on my hip. She ran her fingertip around the dark red flesh in little circles, never taking her eyes off of mine. Then, she leaned further forward still, bringing her mouth to the scar, her lips open.

I watched in awe as my body lit up beneath her mouth. She kissed me, several small kisses on my hip and thigh, and her lips sent out swirls of golden light beneath my skin. I felt those kisses like fire, like excitement, like joy.

I exhaled and shivered, but I did not ask her to stop.

She pushed my skirt up further. She pulled my simple undergarments away.

I laid back, my thighs swirling, swirling with amber light.

She kissed my legs. She kissed my hip. She pushed the dress further up, until she could kiss the soft space of my belly, just below my ribs. And oh, how my ribs reached for her, even as my back arched. It was a reflex I could not control. A soft moan escaped my lips before I even knew my own pleasure.

And everywhere her lips traveled, the fire beneath my skin followed. She lit a path up to my breast bone, then she pulled my dress over my head completely and tossed it away.

I sat in the hay, now as naked as she, but the barn was not dark.

No, we had the blue glow of the moon above, and the amber glow of our skin between us.

I saw the light reflected in her dark eyes.

I felt the urge again, the one I had felt when I had first laid eyes on her. It was the urge to nuzzle against her neck, to bury my face in the mess of her black hair.

This time, I gave in to the impulse immediately.

I pulled her close. I brushed my cheek against her cheek. I let my nose fall into the soft flesh of her neck. I inhaled deeply. I smelled her.

I smelled her blood—dank and musty—mixed with sweat and earth, mixed with something else, something so potent that I could nearly taste it on the air.

I gasped at the sensation, at the hunger.

My body pulsed with light, as did hers. She laid me down again and when I looked into her eyes, I saw my own hunger reflected back at me.

Then, quite suddenly, without an ounce of hesitation, she shifted her weight, she crawled over me, lifting her rear up in the air and then...she dipped her face down between my legs.

And when her tongue touched the delicate skin there, when she nuzzled her nose against me, a burst of light shot up from my crotch, through my belly and into my chest, sending my head back in a cry of pleasure.

Her nuzzles quickly turned to nudges, to seeking strokes of her tongue. She tasted me with a desperate hunger, holding my legs open. Her torso quickly covered me, until I could no longer see my own glowing body.

But I saw hers. She kneeled beside me with her bottom in the air. Her skin was aglow, and the insides of her thighs were alight. And there, in the center of it, she was throbbing, her sex pulsing in rhythm with mine.

Not only could I see her, but— _Oh!_ —I could smell her!

Just as light swirled inside me, her smell swirled around me, driving my agitation—driving my arousal.

I soon found myself jealous of her, of the way she was tasting me. I soon found myself panting in time to the thrusts of her kisses. I soon found myself reaching for her muscular thighs.

I pulled her toward me, straining my neck, straining, straining to get closer to the source of her scent.

She looked back at me over her shoulder, her mouth glistening, her eyes dark with desire. She smiled and panted.

"Come here," I begged, pulling her hips toward me.

She complied, swinging her knee carefully over me, until her bottom was right in my face. She smiled at me.

"Do you remember?" she whispered.

I didn't answer.

I didn't have time.

As soon as her sex was within reach, I had it in my mouth—all of it, swollen and wet. I had it in my mouth, and the taste aroused a cascade of memories.

I saw misty blue mornings. I saw golden sunsets that fell over her eyes like an autumn leaf falls from the tree. I smelled the meadow grasses all around me. I tasted them, too. I felt the sun on my back, on my shoulders, on my spine and rump.

I felt the wind through the valley. I felt it rush over my ears as I chased after her, as she led me into the shadows of the woods so that we might curl around each other, so that we might enjoy each other in private.

The memories came fast like flashes, but nothing could quite take me from the present moment or from my singular intention—to cover my face with her taste, with her scent, with her arousal.

She pushed her hips back, for a moment rocking against my mouth.

Her eagerness sent shivers of passion through me. I found myself grabbing hold of her hips. I found myself using the soft flesh there as leverage. I pulled myself further toward her, plunging my tongue so deep inside her, that it was completely surrounded by her.

She bucked her hips against me, but she did not pull away.

I groaned into her, only distantly aware of some need to be quiet.

She made no single noise, save for the soft panting of her breath. Instead, my ears were filled with wet sounds, sounds like sips, like _ripple, swish_ and _slap_.

Sounds like supple lips. Sounds like bubbling kisses.

She gave a final sigh, then leaned forward, her arms once again wrapped around my legs, her face once again hidden between my thighs.

She was not there long, when I felt a great swelling of pleasure, a great rising up. I pushed my hips straight up, straight against her mouth, even as I strained to push further inside her sex. We strained against each other one last time, pausing in our last thrust and letting it fall away in that last _ripple, swish and slap._

I closed my eyes as little golden swirls of light consumed me.

Then I fell back onto the hay. She fell flat onto my chest.

We laid still like that, limbs limp like leaves of grass stomped underfoot. I was so calm, so satiated.

I looked up through the rotted-out roof and there as the moon.

"I remember," I whispered. "I remember the song of the moon."

She kissed my leg, then sat up. I watched her back as she rose. Her spine curved in one long, elegant line. She laid down next to me and smiled.

"And the stars?"

"Yes, the stars, too."

"What else do you remember?"

"I remember enormous trees...grass...running."

_And the meadow?_

I cannot be sure if she spoke the words or not. I had already started down the road to sleep, and the words were distant, like a memory or dream.

_Do you remember the way to the meadow?_

_Yes, I do._

I cannot be sure that I spoke, either. I think I opened my mouth. I think I breathed the words out, but the sounds were strange, like they didn't fit anymore.

I scowled and drifted into a light slumber until a draft crossed my back and stirred me awake. I shivered and huddled toward Cosima only to find the space empty. I reached a hand out. The hay was still warm.

That's when I heard it, a subtle tap on the floor. I raised my head to see a shadowy form standing near the hole in the wall...an animal in the dark...a doe.

She tapped her hoof once more against the floor and shook her head, beckoning me to rise.

 _Cosima_ , I thought.

I stood up, but in standing, I knew something was different. I wobbled back and forth, until I fell back into the warm hay. I tried again, pushing myself up by my hands.

But then— _Oh!_ —my arms were not my arms! And my legs were not my legs!

No! When I finally stood shakily in the moonlight, it was on four legs instead of two! I felt a chill blow through me. I shook and shook and shook my whole body, until my hooves slipped in the hay.

Yes! My hooves!

Cosima tapped impatiently on the floor, then hopped elegantly through the hole in the slats.

_How long have I been sleeping?_

I looked up through the roof to see the moon still high in the sky. I stepped to hole in the slats and peered out.

Cosima stood at the edge of the forest, her ears erect, her eyes dark, her posture long and alert. I slipped through the hole and took my first tentative steps outside. The leaves gave way easily beneath my hooves, and soon I found myself bounding forward.

I bounded toward her, and when I was close she leaped away, her white flanks flashing in the moonlight, leading me deeper and deeper into the forest, leading me closer and closer to the meadow—leading me home.


End file.
